


Under the Tree

by poludeuces



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 06:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poludeuces/pseuds/poludeuces
Summary: Avicebron had never been good with kids. However as an author that means interacting with a certain book.





	Under the Tree

Territory creation.

A skill that all Casters obtained by being in the class. This was necessary; casters needed a workshop in order to prepare in the war. In Chaldea, their rooms would be transformed into their workshops. Stepping into a caster’s room could lead you to a whole new world. Out of all of the classes, casters were given the most leeway when it came to what was allowed inside—as long as it could be contained and it was necessary for the caster’s magic, it was allowed.

Each caster’s room told so much about the servant. From bubbling beakers and homunculi that sat in Paracelsus’ room, to the idyllic island that housed Medea’s workshop, to the horror filled bloodbath that was Gilles de Rais’ territory. Ritsuka had made one trip to visit Gilles before deciding that that one time was enough.

Casters were also known for using their territory creation on other rooms in Chaldea. There were some areas that were not to be touched—common spaces like the dinning hall and the summoning circles—but hang outs frequented by casters were often decorated by them. Where all of the materials were kept, a large library of burning pages, feathers and more, had been stylized with Mephistopheles’ bombs and a few medjeds ran across the shelves, hiding from their master.

One of these caster hangouts was the Author’s Writing Room.

It had been decided that it might be more productive if the authors were not holed up in their beds and instead wrote and worked together in a room. Shakespeare and Hans had proven in London that if they were allowed to work alongside one another they could gather useful information. So, despite protests by other servants, the then two authors and one book had been given a room to themselves. 

The writing room sat nestled deep in Chaldea. It had been specifically chosen so that it was far off, away from the rest of the hustle, but still close to the dinning hall in case the authors ever felt peckish. With time, they would grow their numbers. At the moment there were only six authors, and they all fell into the caster class. Sometimes the room would be visited by Ritsuka, Sherlock or da Vinci when they needed help, or by Dantes, who would come in to deliver coffee or sweets for the authors.

Given a room and casters to use it, they had been left to decorate it.

At the beginning, with only two authors and a book, it had been divided in two: one side that reflected Shakespeare’s plays, and the other Hans’ and Nursery Rhyme’s fairy tale backgrounds. As more and more writers joined, they were allowed to carve a section of the room up to reflect what they needed in order to write. In the middle sat a couple of couches, varying in design and age, surrounding a coffee table that was often littered with wrappers and empty cups.

When Avicebron arrived, there was already five occupants. On one end sat the side that Hans and Dumas had grudgingly chosen to share, as they were from the same time period and thus liked a similar aesthetic. Their own personal touches still remained—Dumas was littered in odes to his heroes (including a bust of Shakespeare, a painting of his father, and a copy of the poem Hugo had written for him) while faeries danced on Hans’ side amongst childlike drawings of little girls and folklore. Technology stuck out like a sore thumb, with Dumas’ computer and Hans’ collection of tablets amongst old papers covered in beautiful handwriting.

Directly opposite to that was the side that Shakespeare resided in. It was the smallest, his section closest to the couches. Attached to the wall stuck out a desk, with his trusty typewriter. Piles of paper sat next to it, face down, with a half-full cup of coffee dangerously teetering on top. Tucked away in the corner was the First Folio, sitting so that whenever Shakespeare needed to go on a mission, he could quickly grab it. Avicebron noticed some small gifts from Semiramis and Amakusa Shirou, hung up with a care that was uncharacteristic for the disarray of the room.

Scheherazade’s section greeted you when you walked in. Her side was the most inviting—but that was the goal, wasn’t it? She was one of the few that routinely hosted people, spending nights narrating long epics for the other servants, or inviting Nitocris to come and hide in the room with her. Soft pillows covered a beautifully decorated rug on the floor, with pipes and bowls of fruit framing the scene. One of her large scrolls lay against the wall. She had asked da Vinci to paint for her, and a starry sky opened up on the ceiling.

The final wall was Nursery Rhyme’s, who turned her side into scenes from Alice in Wonderland, with the door into the author’s writing room acting as the tiny door into Wonderland. Since she wasn’t technically an author and did not need to write anything, her side acted more as a playdate area, with a long table set up for tea parties (with plush toys of The Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat sitting in some of the chairs, of course). Playing cards and kid’s novels, some from Hans’ library, sat on the floor, ready to trip any unsuspecting victims. 

When Avicebron arrived, he did not ask for much. 

One reason was because he was still on rocky terms with Shakespeare—they had been enemies before and the feelings from that war took a while to dwindle between the two of them. The other was because he was not sure how long he would spend here; he was certainly not known for being an author at Chaldea, but rather a golem mage, and expected to spend more time with Paracelsus and other similar casters.

So, he simply asked for a tree. It was placed in the center of the room, its limbs stretching towards the ceiling. It sat comfortably near the couches. When he was asked if he would like a desk or something similar, he shook his head—this was how he liked to write.

That is how he found himself in the author’s room that afternoon. It was surprisingly quiet—usually when he walked in Hans and Dumas would be screaming at each other. Yet when he opened the door he was met with silence, and a quick look around the room confirmed that he was alone. Although no one could tell, he smiled.

“Maybe I’ll be able to get some actual writing in,” he said aloud. A flick of his wrist summoned some pages and he settled down under the tree. He sighed, pressing the back of his head into the bark. “Maybe I’ll be able to get some actual work done.”

His room was his workshop—made for the construction of golems. Large pits combined mana, rock and crystal to bring them to life. While he was able to construct golems from any terrain, having some pre-constructed helped save on mana. Furthermore, they would prove useful if ever they were attacked again. Avicebron had also been able to put them to work in Chaldea—doing chores, helping with grunt work and helping servants master their skills. While it was taxing, his master was more than happy to provide mana, and as such his workshop was producing new golems daily.

Yet he had been finding it harder and harder for him to concentrate in the room, and to _sleep._ As such his productivity was down, despite the amount of mana that flowed through him. He could see the worry on Ritsuka’s face when asked if he was okay; but Avicebron did not want to tell the truth. Tiny lies were fine.

Besides, how could he tell the truth? That whenever he was in his workshop he was reminded of that war? That whenever he looked at his master he could not shake the fuzzy face of his previous one? His time at Chaldea was to repent for his actions, however he could not shake the thoughts in the back of his head. That he didn’t deserve this. That he was going to do it again. He was reminded of his actions whenever he walked through Chaldea; from the way the servants from the previous war stared at him. 

He had never been good with people.

Avicebron was about to put pencil to paper when the door opened, and a braided young girl pushed her way inside.

He had never been good with kids.

“Uncle Avicebron!” Nursery Rhyme called out, hugging her book to her chest. The door close shut behind her as she made her way into the center of the room. The nickname made him wince—he was still not used to the ‘uncle’ title. He quickly found out through interacting with the rest of the authors that they were all uncle or aunt except for Hans. That was because Nursery Rhyme did not like his endings.

She sat down next to him on one of the roots of the tree. She still needed to lift her chin up a little to read what was on Avicebron’s pages. She cocked her head to the side, “What do you write about, Uncle Avicebron?” Big, pink eyes that reminded him of the rhodochrosite he used to make golems stared back at him. 

He realized he had never really shared much about what he wrote. He knew that he once had gotten into a long discussion with Scheherazade during one of her symposiums, but that had been way past the young girl’s bedtime. Shakespeare was always quick to cut him off when he started discussing his works, and the other two were rarely not at each other’s throats. 

Avicebron leafed through the pages. He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain religious philosophy to a young girl. He turned back to Nursery Rhyme, who was still waiting patiently. Amongst the younger servants, she had a curiosity that defined her, with no shyness compared to the young Jeanne Alter. He was starting to think that the Assassin from his war was having a negative impact on her.

“Hm,” he hummed, pulling a blank page out and starting to draw. Out of the corner of his vision he could see the girl, her hands on her ankles, leaning in to see what was being sketched onto the pages. He drew two characters: a small girl with braids, and a short man covered head to toe with his face covered in cloth. “My most famous work is about the source of life. Each of us was created for a reason and by design.” He gave the girl a book. “For example, you were made to bring joy into kid’s hearts.” A hare with a stopwatch sat at her feet.

She seemed to like the rabbit. “Bunny!” She leaned in and pointed at it, and Avicebron nodded. 

“Yes, that’s correct. Your novel has a rabbit, right?” 

She nodded seriously, putting on what Shakespeare had named ‘Nursery’s Adult Face.’ “His name is The March Hare. He is late…” She looked down, trying her best to remember more about her own story. He waved his hand. 

“Don’t think too hard, I’m sure it will come to you,” he said, dropping his hand down when Nursery Rhyme nodded in response. He had learned from a drunken Hans about what had transpired in London—the abandoned child who had been lulling civilians into deep sleep, and her being named Nursery Rhyme. He knew that she preferred to be called Alice—a part of her saint graph that would never leave. 

Avicebron knew all too well about pieces of identity that he wished would be erased.

He added a few more details; drawing in golems and whatever characters he could think of from the other author’s works in until the page was almost covered up. Nursery Rhyme was happy to point out the characters she recognized, giggling when he drew Hans being kicked in the face by Dumas.

“What is your reason, Uncle Avicebron?” she asked. 

“Pardon?” 

“You said…that your books are about the reason people were created,” she explained, finding a sudden interest in her fingers. “If that is true, then what is yours?”

_To Kill,_ the thoughts told him, _to deceive and lie and kill._ He pushed those thoughts away. His role here in Chaldea was to repent for those sins—to bring the Garden not through death, to sacrifice himself for his master’s purpose. He turned away from those pink eyes and looked down at the drawing. He couldn’t tell the girl the truth—surely it would destroy her view of ‘Uncle Avicebron’. 

He was never good with kids.

“To help the master,” was all he said. He fought the urge to crumple up the drawing in his hands, pushing his fingers into the weak paper. It was close to ripping—if he just applied a little more pressure he could—

“You’re doing a great job, then!” Nursery Rhyme said, placing one of her hands on his. He turned back to face her and her smile as sweet as the lollipops that decorated her wall. The silence that stretched between them must have made her feel awkward, as she added, “I mean… Master seems a lot happier now!”

“Thank you,” he whispered. He reached over to pat her head—she didn’t seem to mind as she closed her eyes in response.

“It’s no biggie! Anything to make Uncle Avicebron happy!” 

He laughed. “Are you not worried that ‘Uncle Shakespeare’ will get angry at you for being nice to the enemy?” 

She pressed a finger to her lips, taking her time to think it over. “Uncle Dumas likes you and so does Auntie Sc-Sche-… Sche… so if it came to a battle we could beat him up!” She leaned back, making sure she could balance herself on the root. “And you’re nicer.”

That surprised him. “Nicer?” He was sure he had seen Shakespeare act out some of his plays for her and read bedtime stories to the group of young children before. 

She nodded fiercely. “Yep!” She pointed at his mask. “Parents smile and promise gifts but then never do them.” Avicebron ignored the fact that this was usually because Nursery Rhyme was having a tantrum. “But you can’t do that. You don’t have a face so you can’t lie!”

He also chose not to tell her the truth—that yes, he did have a face, and that he was able to lie. If anything, it meant another person to fight on his side in the eventual war between him and Shakespeare.

“So, you shouldn’t be sad, Uncle Avicebron,” she told him. “You’re the nice uncle.” He was so very tempted to rub that into Dumas and Shakespeare’s faces now.

“I will try my best,” he promised. She smiled and nodded in response. 

Her eyes fell down onto the drawing. He followed her eyes and cocked his head to the side. “Would you like it?” 

She bit down on her lip and nodded shyly. He chuckled softly and handed it over. She jumped up and started running towards the door. “I’m gonna go show Jack and Jeanne!” she announced. The door opened and she ran out.

Avicebron smiled and looked down at his lap, and _Fons_ Vitae that stared back. He found the pencil again and as pencil touched paper, he was interrupted once more.

“Thanks Uncle Avicebron!” Nursery Rhyme called as she popped her head back inside for a brief moment.

“You’re welcome, Nursery Rhyme.”

He was getting better with kids.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I suck at coming up with titles. I've really fallen for Avicebron, and this is as someone who is the #1 Roche fan and is still not over that death. I got angry that there's no fic of him really yet so I decided to do my job and write something for him. I'll probably write some Ritsuka/Avicebron at one point because I love them.  
> Avicebron has a line asking if he can study NR, and coupled with the fact they're both in the authorsquad, this came out. I hope you enjoyed!


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